


Crushed Under Heavy Chest

by lapsus_calami



Series: Hope For The Hopeless [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Depression, Panic Attacks, RIP Allison Argent, fun times at funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 15:15:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5591149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapsus_calami/pseuds/lapsus_calami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The words Allison and funeral didn’t seem to go together in Stiles’ mind. It didn’t matter that it had been three days and he was sitting on the cushioned chair in the low ceilinged section of the funeral home staring at Allison’s casket and Allison’s motionless, perfectly poised form nestled among the satin fabric. The words Allison’s funeral still didn’t make sense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crushed Under Heavy Chest

**Author's Note:**

> Here is the first part to the prequel series to set the stage.

**Crushed Under Heavy Chest**

Stiles shifted in his seat resisting the urge to tug again at the tie slowly strangling him. If he gave in to the urge to fidget now he was relatively sure he wouldn’t be able to stop. He wasn’t sure it was the tie that made him feel like he was suffocating. In fact it probably wasn’t the tie. His dad had tied it for him that morning, securing it loosely around Stiles’ neck no doubt remembering the last funeral Stiles had been to and how Stiles had ultimately torn the striped blue tie off in the midst of a panic attack. Stiles certainly remembered.

He could feel the beginnings of a panic attack now, itching uncomfortably under his skin and clamping tighter and tighter around his lungs. The room seemed too hot as well, the air thick and heavy, the room too crowded. A part of him wished they could have done this outside where the air was chilled and the sky was open above him. He never would understand why the parlor thought it was a good idea to have walls without windows and a ceiling that slanted down until it was threatening to crush Stiles under the weight of last few days.

An arm settled around his shoulders suddenly and Stiles jumped at the contact, clenching his hand in his pants and resolutely ignoring the concerned look Scott shot him at the spike in his already fast heartbeat. Dad squeezed his shoulder in apology leaning close to whisper, “Guess that answers my question of whether or not you’re okay.”

Stiles ducked his head. “I’m fine,” he muttered still not looking at Scott even as his best friend reached out to pull Stiles’ hand off his pants and thread their fingers together. Immediately Stiles felt the effects of the pain drain, the constant aches of the last few days as well as the pains of anxiety fading away. Scott’s hand was warm in his, unsurprising since Stiles had yet to actually feel warm himself since…since he couldn’t remember when. “I told you not to do that,” he said softly, barely more than a breath of air.

Scott’s only answer was to tighten his hold. It was odd, but his touch was as reassuring as it was distressing. Scott drained the pain and the anxiety, but something else settled heavy in Stiles’ chest in its place, like an elephant sitting on him and slowly crushing all the air from his lungs. Scott swiped his thumb over Stiles’ hand, and Dad rubbed at his shoulder soothingly. Stiles focused on taking one breath after another and tried to redirect his attention back to the man at the front of the room.

The words _Allison_ and _funeral_ didn’t seem to go together in Stiles’ mind. It didn’t matter that it had been three days and he was sitting on a cushioned chair in the low ceilinged section of the funeral home staring at Allison’s casket and Allison’s motionless, perfectly poised form nestled among the satin fabric, with Allison’s father sitting in front of him shoulders tense in stoic grief.

The words _Allison’s funeral_ still didn’t make sense.

Stiles had never liked funerals, not that he’d attended many. They were long, they were boring, they made Stiles’ skin crawl and his nerves jitter. They were full of people Stiles had no idea how to talk to. Stiles’ first funeral had been his mother’s. He supposed that probably accounted for his terrible response to his second funeral. Dad and him had driven thirteen hours for his great aunt’s funeral and Scott’s well meaning advice for Stiles to just ‘say you’re sorry for their loss and move on’ had sort of backfired. Luckily, Stiles’ third and last funeral had been spent crouched behind a tombstone and not interacting with any of the family.

Allison’s funeral was different.

Because she was only eighteen. Because Stiles considered her a friend, maybe even a close friend. Because her father had actually hugged him that morning. Because it was Stiles’ fault that she was in that coffin in the first place. Because even after everything his world was still spiraling out of control in ways that Stiles didn't understand, all of it crumbling out from beneath him as he tried to find his footing. 

A little bit louder and a little bit worse.

* * *

Lydia clucked her tongue the moment she saw them walking up to the funeral home. They paused at the door, Lydia reaching up to run her fingers through Stiles hair. She blinked, looking a little hurt when Stiles flinched away, but recovered quickly dropping her arm and sighing gustily. “Did you even bother looking in the mirror?” she said.

Stiles forced an imitation of a smirk running a hand through his hair self-consciously because no, no he hadn’t and that was two people now that had remarked on his hair. Regardless, Stiles hadn't been able to make himself look at his reflection since, well, since he’d apparently been puked up on the floor of Scott’s house. Thinking of that still managed to twist something inside Stiles and make him shudder. “Does it look that bad?” he asked when Lydia began to frown at Stiles’ prolonged silence.

She shook her head reaching up slower this time to flick her fingers through his hair while Stiles swallowed wanting nothing more than to shrink away from her touch. It was confusing because there had been a day when Stiles would have given anything to have Lydia’s fingers playing with his hair. Now her touch simply caused a sour feeling to well up inside him along with an almost physical ache just behind his sternum.

“You look good,” Lydia said offering him a sad smile, and as her fingers trailed down to his tie before she pressed her hand over his heart Stiles wondered if she meant his dark blue button-down and black tie or the fact that he was, for the moment, no longer actively dying.

Stiles cleared his throat and stepped away from Lydia a little relieved when his dad placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder and stepped into the conversation. “Are the others here?”

Lydia nodded, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as the wind picked up for a moment. “Yeah. Scott texted me earlier,” she said. “He’s inside with his mom, Chris, and Isaac.”

Dad squeezed his shoulder reaching around to pull the door open. “Let’s go on in then,” he said. “It’s cold out here. Lydia, you must be freezing.”

Stiles almost argued, the air on his face actually felt warm if he was completely honest, but he still felt frozen though he was certain the cold in his bones was from a deeper cause than chilled air.

He ushered Lydia in ahead of him, hesitating over the threshold at the sound of muted conversation from the people within. The walls closed in and for a moment Stiles couldn’t breathe, thought about backing out the door and fleeing, but his dad was a solid presence behind him blocking his escape.

“Just take deep breaths,” Dad whispered pressing his hand to the small of Stiles’ back and nudging him forward.

Stiles forced his feet to move, pushing down a flinch when Lydia reached back to take his hand. He clutched at her hand like a lifeline in the tidal wave of slowly approaching people. It was incredible, the amount of people that had showed up. Not that Stiles expected anything less for a girl like Allison. Add in her youth and the tragic nature of her death, and there were a lot of people here to pay their respects.

Lydia stayed by his left side, and his dad moved up on his right keeping a hovering hand on Stiles’ back. It was a little like being flanked, and Stiles wasn’t sure if it made him feel protected or crowded.

Scott was turning towards them even as Stiles located him among the faces. Stiles couldn’t help the small smile that stretched across his lips at the sight of his friend and some deep part of himself relaxed at the answering smile from Scott. Hugging Scott was easy even if part of Stiles felt suffocated because another, larger part of him just felt safe. Melissa gave him a tight hug after, and Stiles allowed himself to cling to her for only a few moments before letting go.

Isaac was next, as awkward as that was. Stiles understood; someone died and suddenly everyone was just that bit more huggy even to people they only tolerated before. So he patted Isaac on the shoulder and tried not to pull away too soon.

“Stiles, how are you doing?” Chris asked surprising Stiles by pulling him in for a hug after Isaac.

Stiles couldn’t answer for a moment, a sudden lump lodged in his throat increasing in size for every moment Chris held on to him. “Fine,” he managed to get out finally and it only sounded a little strangled. He cleared his throat as Chris drew away. “I’m fine. Doing…doing okay.”

“Good,” Chris said smiling slightly like all he needed to get through his daughter’s funeral was for the boy who caused her death to be all right. “That’s real good. Glad to hear.”

Stiles nodded and forced a smile of his own. “Yeah,” he said sounding faint even to his own ears.

“Excuse me,” the funeral director interjected offering them all a sincere smile before focusing on Chris. “Mr. Argent, it’s almost time. If you and Allison’s friends would like to take your seats now, everything is prepared.”

“Thank you,” Chris said.

“Of course, of course,” the funeral director replied before moving on.

Chris sighed rubbing a hand over his face and Dad cleared his throat. “Okay,” Melissa said guiding Scott and Isaac forward with a hand on each of their shoulders. “Let’s go take our seats. Lydia, is your mom coming?”

“She’s on her way,” Lydia answered as they moved into the other room, pausing a moment as Allison’s coffin came into view before recovering and moving forward. “I’ll save her a seat.”

Stiles barely heard the talk of seating order as he stared at the casket at the front of the room surrounded by a sea of beautiful flowers. Eventually Chris, Isaac, and Lydia filed into the front row, Lydia saving a seat for her mom. Melissa and Scott settled in behind them, and Dad nudged Stiles into motion to take a seat next to Scott.

His heart, which had been pounding painfully since Chris hugged him, continued right along thundering loud enough that all Stiles could hear was the blood roaring in his ears. The more people that filed into the room the smaller it seemed to get until Stiles was sweating even as he shivered from the oppressive weight of the walls bearing down on him, something like a scream building in his throat and itching for escape.

A little bit louder now.

* * *

Stiles tugged at his tie with is free hand, flexing his fingers in Scott’s grip. He tried to pull his hand from Scott’s, a spike of anxiety shooting through him when Scott didn’t let go. Dad pressed a hand to the nape of Stiles’ neck, carding his fingers gently through Stiles' hair before Stiles knocked his hand away and pulled more insistently against Scott’s hold.

“I need some air,” he whispered as he stood, hoping against hope that Scott would somehow miss his thundering heart. Of course Scott heard it, his _dad_ could probably hear it, the way it was pounding hard against his rib cage.

Scott let go of his hand but grabbed his wrist instead, thumb set over Stiles’ jumping pulse, the silent question on his face clear in his pinched brows and worried eyes.

“I’m fine, buddy. Just need some air,” Stiles repeated breathing a sigh of relief when Scott finally let go of him. Stiles patted his dad’s shoulder shaking his head at the unspoken request on if he wanted company and ignored the curious and irritated looks people gave him as he left. Pointedly he refused to look at Chris or Allison. The weight of people’s gazes stifled him even more, and by the time Stiles was shoving the door open and stumbling outside he was undeniably in the beginnings of an anxiety attack.

The sunlight streaming down was blinding after the dimness of the funeral home and the cold stone of the building was rough under his fingertips from where he’d lent against the wall. He pushed himself away, wanting to make it at least a few blocks away before really loosing it because the last thing he wanted was for Scott to leave the funeral of his ex-girlfriend because his best friend was having some sort of meltdown outside. The second one of the day.

Second verse same as the first.

* * *

“You know,” Dad murmured as he deftly knotted the tie loosely so that it wouldn't put too much pressure around Stiles’ neck, “no one would think badly of you if you didn’t go.”

Stiles pulled his gaze up from where he’d been staring at his dad’s tie knotted far tighter than his own. “I have to go,” he said after a moment.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” his dad asked still looking worried and letting a hand rest on the side of Stiles’ neck. Stiles hated that expression, wanted to do everything in his power to make it go away and make it stay gone. The problem was that it had already taken everything in his power to get out of bed and force himself to get ready. He didn’t have the energy to fake it until he made it.

Nevertheless he mustered up a smile, strained as it felt. “Yeah. I'm fine. Just tired,” he said. Exhausted really; he’d hoped for some dreamless sleep with the Nogitsune gone but it was still an ever-elusive thing. Every inch of him ached, every part of him begged to crawl back under the covers despite knowing what likely awaited him, and every task seemed as insurmountable as climbing a mountain. But he made himself smile, made himself give his dad’s forearm a reassuring pat, pretended he didn’t feeling like going back to bed and not getting up for another month, because it was what he needed to do.

His dad smiled, worry lines still creased around his eyes but, to be honest, Stiles wasn’t sure those would ever go away. “Might want to do something with that hair then,” Dad said leaning in to press a kiss to Stiles’ temple in a way he hadn’t done since after Mom had died. “I’m going to eat some breakfast before we leave. You want anything?”

Stiles shook his head unable to get any words out around the lump that had inexplicably formed in his throat at his dad’s easy show of affection.

“You sure?” Dad asked concern leaking into his features once more and as much as Stiles wanted to wash it all away there was no way he’d be able to actually stomach food before this. So he shook his head again and valiantly didn’t react when Dad brushed a strand of hair off his forehead and murmured, “Okay,” before leaving.

Having a panic attack because his father kissed him on the forehead didn’t make much sense, but neither did biting his lip hard enough that it bled just to keep his dad from hearing said panic attack. There was absolutely no reason to hide it from the one person who would unconditionally help him through it, but he did it anyway. Pushed his door shut and retreated the corner of his room to ride it out in silence because, because…Stiles didn’t know why.

Stiles didn’t know why the feeling of his dad’s lips brushing over his skin and the weight of his dad’s hand on his shoulder left him feeling suffocated and jittery. He didn’t know why his heart was pounding and his chest was heaving. He didn't know why he hid in the corner instead of getting his dad’s attention. He certainly didn’t know why he was trying his damnedest to not make a sound. All he knew was, at the moment, every single one of those was something he was doing.

Dad called up the stairs, asking whether or not Stiles was ready. Based on how long it usually took him to eat breakfast Stiles had wasted enough time. He pushed himself up and out of the corner knocking into the dresser before steadying himself. He dragged his hairbrush over his head quickly and snagged a jacket on the way out. At the top of the stairs he hesitated, backtracking his steps to switch the jacket out for a heavier coat. It was November, no one would question if he was wearing something heavier than his usual jacket.

He stumbled down the stairs just as his dad was starting to come up, shrugging his coat on and trying to gather all the loose ends of himself up into something that resembled an image of all rightness because that was what he needed to be  right now.

“You ready to go, kiddo?” Dad asked again steadying Stiles with a hand at his elbow. He narrowed his eyes, running his gaze over Stiles like he was putting together too many pieces. “Hey, you sure you’re okay?”

Stiles nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said adjusting his coat collar so that it sat more comfortably around his neck. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

A little bit softer now.

* * *

Stiles collapsed against a building stumbling into an alley before falling to the ground; it’d have to be far enough. He drew his knees up to his chest just letting it wash over him. All he had to do was ride it out. He clenched his arms around his legs, whimpering into his elbow and squeezing his eyes shut.

He should be used to panic attacks by now. Really. Should know how they go and what to expect and on some level he did. But in reality it didn’t matter how many panic attacks he had. Didn’t matter how many articles he read or that he knew, logically, a panic attack wouldn’t kill him. The pain in his chest, the numbness in his hands and feet, and the difficulty breathing never failed to scare him and make him think that maybe this time his heart wouldn't slow and he wouldn’t be able to breathe again. Because, if he really thought about it, with his luck he would be the first person to die from a panic attack.

After the last vestiges of panic faded away and Stiles was left shaky and exhausted on the filthy ground of an alleyway, he let himself rest for a few minutes then picked himself up. Dusted off his pants, schooled his expression into one that hopefully wouldn’t give away the fact that he’d spent the last few minutes losing his shit in an alleyway, and walked back to Scott and his dad.

He let Scott take his hand again, let his dad drop a consoling arm around his shoulders, sat still on that overly cushioned chair and didn’t pull at his tie. He stared at the girl in her coffin and repeated those words in the hope that maybe, just maybe, they’d start to make sense.

Third verse same as the first. A little bit louder and a little bit worse.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be adding parts to this series intermittently as NOCTL progresses. 
> 
> You can follow me on [tumblr](http://lapsuscalamiwriting.tumblr.com)


End file.
